


Reminiscent

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Birthday Presents, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Irie’s had years, now, to accustom himself to it, to the dates that are not-quite-dates and sitting across from Byakuran for hours at dinner without ever getting more for his time than the maybe-accident of a knee bumping his, the brief contact of fingers brushing his skin if they both reach for something at the same time." It is almost Irie's birthday, and he's tired of waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminiscent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Irie had expected the waiting to get easier. He’s had years, now, to accustom himself to it, after all, to the dates that are not-quite-dates and sitting across from Byakuran for hours at dinner without ever getting more for his time than the maybe-accident of a knee bumping his, the brief contact of fingers brushing his skin if they both reach for something at the same time. Byakuran is strict in respecting Irie’s age as he is with nothing else, and even if it is only done to torment Irie it is true that it’s been over two years that Irie has had the memories of being together with none of the warmth of it on his own skin.

He doesn’t mention it tonight. Byakuran told him they were having dinner a week ago, with the blase assumption of agreement he has always shown, and Irie didn’t want to bring up his upcoming birthday, didn’t want to suggest they delay a day and come off too aggressive. But now his skin is aching, like it always aches, every point in his body vibrating with heat like it’s trying to drag itself bodily closer to Byakuran, smiling from a barely-safe distance away as they walk back after another pointless dinner, and Irie is now regretting his decision.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he blurts, even though as a general rule it’s Byakuran who does the asking and not Irie.

“I have some plans,” Byakuran chirps without looking at Irie, and Irie stops listening to the other detail them, loses his attention for the conversation along with the strength to keep his shoulders upright. He slouches in over himself, curling his spine in the way Byakuran hates, and the other really isn’t paying any attention or he would tell Irie to stand up straighter.

It’s okay, Irie has to remind himself. This will hardly be the last time they see each other, and just because Byakuran has forgotten his birthday doesn’t mean he can’t be reminded or won’t remember on his own. Still, there’s a stomach-churning loneliness to being forgotten; whatever else Byakuran has been and has proven himself to still be, careless isn’t among the traits Irie remembers.

Byakuran escorts Irie all the way to his front door, pauses to peer in through the shadowed windows at the empty apartment while Irie fishes his keys out of his pocket. His stomach is starting to hurt, now, twisting on the question he always hates to ask but can’t make himself stop forming, in the last desperate surge that accompanies every evening spent in the other’s company. He doesn’t even look up, this time, just stares at the door handle as it twists open under his fingers.

“You won’t kiss me tonight either, will you?” He sounds resigned, heavy and miserable and aching with the want for what he still, apparently, can’t be allowed to have. It’s a shallow hurt, and it speaks to the stability of his current state that this is his greatest concern, but that doesn’t stop it from itching under his skin. Irie can feel his throat closing up, tears coming to meet the inevitable rejection, and the next sentence comes fast, high and stretched thin over the cracks in his voice. “It’s not  _fair_ , you know, it’s my birthday tomorrow and you didn’t remember.” He sounds petulant, whiny and protesting, but he can’t stop the words, can’t lift his head to see the laughter or worse the judgment on Byakuran’s face. “If we had done this  _tomorrow_  you would, or at least you’d have to come up with a new excuse.” He takes a breath but it sticks in his throat, chokes him on the shape of a sob of frustration. “It’s  _so soon_ , are you doing this on purpose or is this really just the worst of my bad luck?”

There’s a laugh, and Irie stiffens, gasps half an inhale into lungs that refuse to work. It’s not the laugh, the easy dismissal of his own concerns; it’s the proximity, the warmth blowing over the back of his neck, and when did Byakuran move, when did he get so  _close_?

“Tomorrow?” Motion, friction, something faint like wind blowing against the shoulder of Irie’s shirt, and Irie can’t move and can’t breathe. “Sho-chan.” Chastising, mocking, amused but warmer more than anything else, purring against his name like an innuendo. “Check your phone.”

Irie is starting to shake. The frozen hesitation in his blood gives way to involuntary trembling as he fumbles for his pocket to fish out the device as ordered. He nearly drops it as he tries to unlock the screen but there are fingers there, catching under his to steady the weight, and a voice in his ear saying, “What time is it, Sho-chan?”

“Oh,” Irie says without seeing the numbers in front of him. Byakuran’s fingers are lingering at his, pressing in against the back of his hand, and that would be enough on its own but there’s movement against his head, hair catching at his own, and Byakuran makes a little pleased noise and presses his nose against the back of Irie’s ear, and every flickering flame of heat under Irie’s skin burns itself into a conflagration all at once.

He knows, has caught up to the implication of the fingers and the breath on his skin and the lips skimming over his hairline, but he still blinks, forces his vision into focus on the numbers. “Twelve twelve.”

“Happy birthday, Sho-chan,” Byakuran sings against the back of Irie’s neck, and then his mouth presses in to the other’s skin deliberately and Irie whimpers aloud. There’s a drag of lips, Byakuran parting his mouth while Irie’s body flushes hot across every inch, and then the hot damp of a tongue dragging across the back of his neck and Irie can feel his knees give way.

“You taste the same as I remember,” Byakuran says against his skin, and his breath is ruffling through Irie’s hair and it’s only the support of the other’s arm around his waist that is keeping Irie anything like upright. His head is spinning like it does when he forgets to eat dinner and stands up too fast, but it doesn’t clear this time. He’s clutching at the door handle, leaning against the support like it’s anything worth trusting, and Byakuran’s hold around his fingers is the only thing saving Irie’s phone from falling to the ground.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says again, and he really is whispering but his lips are so close Irie hears every word like a shout, has to shut his eyes to bear the heat that rushes into him from that sound. “Inside.”

Irie doesn’t protest, doesn’t even offer an embarrassed whine. He just moves, nearly falling into the darkness inside, and Byakuran is right behind him, moving so smoothly Irie’s not actually sure he’s not using his wings to take his weight. The lightswitch is in reach and Irie should be stretching for it but he can’t manage to pull away from Byakuran even for that; his entire body is shaking uncontrollably, shivering with no relation to the cold, and Byakuran is laughing against his jaw, interrupting his own amusement for the sake of pressing open-mouthed kisses against the line of skin he can reach.

Irie doesn’t trust his feet to take his weight but he has to turn, he can’t keep staring blind into the darkness in front of him while Byakuran sighs raw delight against the back of his neck. He twists, turning and grabbing at Byakuran’s shoulder with the same movement, and it’s not graceful but it is effective, his fingers are curling in against the holes at the collar of Byakuran’s shirt and he’s fumbling his phone back towards his pocket to free his other hand, and now Byakuran’s laugh is warm against his mouth, the pale locks of the other’s hair are skimming against his forehead and catching on his own curls with the promise of proximity Irie can’t quite make himself believe.

“You’re shaking,” Byakuran observes, and he’s not holding onto Irie anymore, there are long fingers threading into red hair and the weight of his thumb fitting against Irie’s jaw and his words are brushing against the other’s mouth, Irie has no idea how Byakuran can so accurately gauge the distance without the assistance of sight. “Are you afraid, Sho-chan?”

Irie’s fingers tighten at Byakuran’s shirt, drag like the loose fabric will give him the leverage to forcibly pull the other in over that last tiny gap. “No,” he says, and he sounds breathless and aching with desire. “I’m excited.”

“Good,” Byakuran says, and then his mouth is fitting in against Irie’s, and Irie’s eyes are shutting of their own accord, and everything goes soft and warm and still. Byakuran’s mouth is familiar, this motion is easy with the knowledge of failed futures, and when he makes a little humming sound of pleasure Irie knows that too, can recall the way it slides over his lips like an inquiry and he’s opening his mouth in answer before he can think it through. Byakuran’s fingers tighten into a hold, pull Irie in closer and harder, and then his tongue is sliding past Irie’s lips, dipping over the other’s tongue and dragging across the roof of his mouth like he’s retracing old paths. He tastes like sugar on Irie’s tongue and he burns like flames, his fingers hot on Irie’s skin and his breath curling over the other’s cheek as he turns his head to press in closer.

Irie doesn’t realize they’re backing up, moving farther into the shadows of the room; he’s too lost in the draw of Byakuran’s mouth to pay attention to his surroundings, trapped by sensations familiar and breathtakingly novel at once. He only notices their motion when his knees bump against resistance, his unsteady balance finally giving way, and Byakuran lets him go at the same time, leaves him to wobble and clutch for a hold at the other’s shirt before his grip goes and he falls backwards into heart-stopping uncertainty. The impact blows his breathing away, leaves him staring shocked and unseeing at the ceiling for a moment before he realizes that wasn’t pain, that he landed against the soft of the couch instead of the floor or the coffee table, and then the light comes on and he has to flinch away from the blinding illumination.

“That’s better.” Byakuran sounds calm and unfazed. Irie manages another breath and the door clicks into place as Byakuran closes it. He can hear Byakuran moving in closer, can see the shadow of the other’s form fall over him as he blinks up to see Byakuran smiling down at him.

“This way I can see you properly,” Byakuran purrs. He’s leaning in, fitting himself in over the awkward sprawl of Irie’s limbs over the couch until it seems like deliberate grace, like Irie has left a space exactly the right shape and size for the other’s form. His fingers are back in Irie’s hair, smoothing the tangled curls back from the other’s forehead and sliding down until his thumb can skim against Irie’s pulse, and then he’s leaning back in for another kiss, slow and unhurried and so thorough Irie doesn’t notice how Byakuran’s legs are fitting in around and between his own. There’s too much friction against his lips, the threat of teeth for a moment before Byakuran pulls back to suck at Irie’s lower lip, licks against the corner of his mouth like Irie is some delicious candy he’s savouring. He’s laughing, or humming, Irie’s not sure which, and Irie is certain he’s not doing enough in response but he can’t manage his body, can’t seem to do anything but curl his fingers into Byakuran’s shirt so they can tighten into convulsive fists when the other licks across his cheekbone, or nips at the edge of his jaw, or sighs satisfaction into a fog on Irie’s glasses.

“You’re always so lovely like this,” Byakuran says into Irie’s hair. He rocks his hips forward, a single smooth motion like maybe he’s just shifting his weight, like maybe the way his leg presses in and down against Irie’s jeans is an accident. It makes Irie gasp, arch involuntarily off the couch, and when he gets his vision back in focus Byakuran is watching him, drawn back enough to see the other’s expression as his fingers glide down over the loose fall of Irie’s shirt at his hips. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”

“Yeah,” Irie manages, pushing up harder because Byakuran is going torturously slow, his fingers are settling into the shirt like he’s more interested in the feel of the cloth than he is in getting it peeled off Irie’s skin. “You’re not alone in that.” It comes out snappish, taut with anticipation and want and too-long waiting pulled into the aching desire for the gratification Irie can see coming for him, but Byakuran doesn’t rise to the bait, just laughs and leans in to rest his mouth on Irie’s.

“Really?” His fingers push up higher, his thumb curls in under the fabric so it drags across Irie’s skin and pulls a high groan from the other’s throat. “You should have said something, Sho-chan, I had no idea.”

Irie can’t even manage coherency to that. All he has to offer is a choked gasp of outrage, and Byakuran’s smile doesn’t even slip. The shirt hitches higher, baring most of Irie’s chest, and when Byakuran moves it’s too fast for Irie to react, his head coming down so he’s licking down the center line of Irie’s chest before the other can even let his hands fall loose of the other’s shirt.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Irie wails. His hips come off the couch entirely, his whole body pressed in flush to Byakuran’s for a moment; then his strength fails him, he falls back to the cushions, and Byakuran is still sliding lower across his skin, licking all the way down to the trembling tension across Irie’s stomach until his mouth brushes the top edge of the other’s jeans. Irie is embarrassingly hard; any sort of equivocation would be impossible even if Byakuran weren’t on level with the tension against the denim of his jeans, and he can feel himself flushing red as his hair with self-consciousness. But Byakuran doesn’t look up, doesn’t pause to revel in Irie’s discomfort as the other half-expects him to, and there’s some suggestion of impatience there, some startling implication Irie starts to form into clarity in his mind.

Then Byakuran curls his fingers under the edge of Irie’s jeans, pulls them an inch away from his skin, and when he breathes hot into the space Irie jerks and whimpers and forgets everything but the promise of that warmth. He’s still shuddering when Byakuran draws back enough to unfasten the button and zipper one-handed, loosens the tension of the jeans themselves so he can fit his fingers in past the clothing to press his hand against Irie’s boxers. That’s another wave of sensation, another desperate upward shift of his hips, and Byakuran laughs, this time, sounding so low and warm and pleased Irie’s self-consciousness melts into arousal instead of discomfort.

“Are you going to be patient?” Byakuran asks, draws his hand away so he can drag at Irie’s clothes instead. Jeans and elastic together catch at the other’s hip, slide down his legs to his knees, and Irie just has time to take a sharp breath of embarrassment as his cock comes free of the clothing before Byakuran abandons his hold to press his palm back where it was. His hand is soft, warm and electrifying even while his fingers are still splayed wide to skim across Irie’s hip instead of closed around him.

“Oh god,” Irie says, and he has to look up and away, stares at the white neutrality of the ceiling to collect himself. Byakuran doesn’t protest but he does laugh, wraps his fingers in against Irie’s length, and that’s enough to undo whatever extra composure Irie might have gained. “I don’t know.”

“I want this to last.” It sounds like a pout but it cues as an order, fires responsive tension all through Irie’s skin as the fingers wrapped around him draw up in a testing stroke. Irie shudders out a breath, lets one of his hands go from Byakuran’s shirt so he can angle his arm over his face. The dark helps, a little.

“Okay,” he says, unsure what he’s agreeing to but willing to say anything to keep Byakuran moving. It gets him a laugh, a kiss pressed against his hip, another slow slide of fingers over flushed skin.

“Good answer,” he croons, and then there’s the slick drag of his tongue up against Irie’s cock, and Irie never gets the chance to say anything in response other than a groan that pulls up from the lowest point of his body. Byakuran’s lips come open, slide down over Irie’s length, and Irie is trembling into incoherency, losing all the strength in his body to the irresistible tremor of sensation in his blood. He doesn’t realize for a moment that Byakuran is humming against him; the sound hits his own shaking, blurs into a single thrumming moment of rising pleasure, and Irie’s reaching out, pushing desperately at Byakuran’s hair to urge him back and away.

He doesn’t need to. Byakuran is pulling back already, laughing so Irie doesn’t have to see his face to see the sharp corners of his smile. The damp at Irie’s skin chills in the air, Byakuran’s fingers tightening against him rather than stroking more sensation over his skin, and Irie doesn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated by the stalled pleasure in his blood.

“I can barely even play with you,” he says, so chiding Irie can feel an automatic apology forming on his lips before he can close his mouth sharply on the words. “It’s too bad, Sho-chan, I want to taste more of you.”

Irie whimpers, lets his arm fall so he can stare disbelief at the ceiling. Byakuran is still bracing against the base of his cock, pressing with more strength than those fingers ought to have, and Irie thinks at first that he’s going to let go, now that the rising burn of orgasm has faded off from the edge of possibility.

Then there’s another rush of heat, the slow slide of a tongue against him, and Irie chokes and looks down before he can stop himself. Byakuran is still holding him, keeping his grip tight, but he’s looking up at Irie’s eyes, smiling so Irie can see the expression even though his mouth is open, his tongue catching torturously slowly against the head of the other’s cock. Byakuran flutters his eyelashes when he sees Irie watching, sighs audible reaction in the back of his throat, and Irie flinches back from the wave of heat as Byakuran licks up over him, trails his tongue across the slick of pre-come against Irie’s skin.

“Mmm,” he purrs, pulling away to lick his lips, and Irie is certain he’s not going to survive the night. “You taste like  _candy_.”

“ _Byakuran_ ,” Irie says, his coherency too lost to manage a better protest than the high wail of the other’s name. Byakuran laughs, pulls back and away, and when he lets his too-tight hold go Irie knows better than to reach out to take over himself. He slides off the couch, disentangles his legs from Irie’s, and when he reaches back out it’s to grab at the other’s clothes rather than his skin. He tugs the bunched shirt free first, jerking it sharply off Irie’s head so it catches and nearly knocks the other’s glasses off, and Irie is still fumbling the frames back in place when Byakuran moves down to drag his shoes off too, the action quick and hurried before he pulls Irie’s jeans down his legs and off over his feet. Irie is aching, his skin aching and flushing with desire for contact, friction, heat,  _anything_ , but he doesn’t speak, lets Byakuran strip his clothes off and leave him shivering on the couch with a breath of protest.

“You’re doing so  _well_ ,” Byakuran praises, his voice syrupy-smooth and sweet with condescension. He’s coming back in now that Irie’s clothes are out of the way, fitting his knees between the other’s ankles and leaning in to kiss against the other’s chest again. He’s tugging something out of his pocket, parting his lips to drag his teeth over Irie’s skin, and by the time he pulls away and rocks back over his knees Irie is breathless again, his attention flickering between desperate curiosity and immediate sensation. When he looks up Byakuran is tearing a packet of lube open with his teeth, glancing at Irie and offering a smile of promise as he gets his fingers slick with the liquid.

“You remember this, right?” he says, letting the packet fall to the floor and reaching out to ease Irie’s leg wider. Irie  _does_ , vividly, his collect memories are burning under his skin with superheated anticipation and the flush of embarrassment together, and then Byakuran looks down and hums in satisfaction, and Irie is opening his mouth on self-conscious protest when a finger slides into him.

Byakuran’s skin is slick, it catches minimal friction as he moves, but there’s still a burst of sensation, heat so intense Irie’s not even sure it’s pleasant in the first breath. It’s too much, more than his memories could manage to convey, and he’s gasping and staring sightlessly at the ceiling in the first drag of pressure, and Byakuran is laughing.

“Your body might not,” he allows. Irie can barely pay attention to the sound of his words; he’s shaking himself apart on the couch, not sure if he wants to pull away or push in for more. “Just relax.” Byakuran’s hand shifts, slides up from the inside of Irie’s thigh to brace at his hip, and he’s thrusting in deeper, Irie can feel every inch of motion like Byakuran’s skin is made of fire, and then he angles his hand and everything goes white for a moment under the crush of heat that bursts out into Irie’s body.

“ _Fuck_ ” Irie blurts, and he’s moving, now, he’s arching up towards Byakuran’s hand as the other slides back.

“ _Good_ ,” is all he says, still grinning so wide his amusement is audible in his voice, and then he’s ducking his head, his hand is coming sideways off the other’s hip to tighten at the base of Irie’s cock and he’s thrusting in harder, catching that same flash of sensation on each motion like he’s reading Irie’s reactions like a book. Irie’s groaning, he isn’t sure he’ll ever stop shaking, and then Byakuran’s tongue slides over the head of his cock again and he jerks, tries to rock up and slide down the couch with the same movement and succeeds at neither.

“You’re so enthusiastic, Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, the words purring with appreciation. “Want another?” He’s drawing his hand back before Irie can process the question, pushing a second finger in as the redhead struggles for a response, and this time when he thrusts in Irie can feel the heat in him coalesce under his skin and spill pre-come hot and slick over his skin. Byakuran’s mouth is back again, sucking against the liquid as he hums delight in the back of his throat, and Irie has no resistance in him at all. Everything is waves of heat, friction and motion and damp warmth, and he can’t think and he can’t speak, he’s not even sure there’s an Irie anymore as much as there is just a recipient for Byakuran’s attention.

The next breath he remembers taking is much later, as Byakuran sighs slow with anticipation and slides his fingers free. Irie whimpers more at that than the original intrusion, the pounding heat in his blood going cool and pained with the loss of the pressure. The grip on his cock goes too, Byakuran’s getting to his feet again, and Irie blinks himself back into the shape of coherency in time to see Byakuran tugging his shirt up off his head as he toes his shoes off. There’s no trace of self-consciousness, just moonlight white skin and the rustle of feathers as the fabric comes free of the shape of his wings. Byakuran looks more fragile without his shirt on, thinner than Irie always remembers him, but he doesn’t pause to give the redhead time to consider; he’s ducking his head to work his belt free, peeling his pants off with as much disregard as he did his shirt. Irie remembers this, too, all this pale skin and these sharp lines of bone just under it, but it’s different in reality, weighted with value like a dream turned to truth.

Byakuran looks up as he straightens. He doesn’t appear at all surprised by Irie’s stare; there’s just a flickering smile across his lips, the promise of dangerous pleasure, and he ducks to shadow Irie’s face, to catch the redhead’s lower lip with his for a moment. He tastes salty and sweet together, the faint taste of artificial strawberries clinging to his lips, and Irie is just realizing the lube must be flavored when Byakuran pulls away, comes back to the end of the couch to fit himself back where he belongs.

“I hope you’re ready, Sho-chan,” Byakuran purrs, his voice dropping so low Irie can feel it all under his skin. There’s no question in the statement, just a calm declaration of fact, and Byakuran is leaning forward instead of kneeling, pressing his hips in between Irie’s legs, and Irie spreads his knees obediently wider even as his breathing catches in his throat and Byakuran leans in to dominate his vision. There are fingers at his hair, Byakuran’s smile in front of his eyes, and then the other crosses the remaining distance, presses his mouth to the very corner of Irie’s, and thrusts forward. There’s a slide of skin-on-skin, the heat of friction washing over Irie’s skin, and Byakuran is sliding inside him and he’s reaching up unthinking to close his fingers desperately on the other’s shoulder.

“Sho-chan,” and that’s a purr Irie can feel right through his whole body, shivering up his spine on the tide of friction from Byakuran’s movements. Byakuran tips his weight over one elbow, reaches out to grab at Irie’s free hand and draw it down between them. Fingers brush against Irie’s cock, Byakuran’s and his own tangled together, and Byakuran is curling Irie’s unresisting hold into a grip against the base of his length.

“Don’t let yourself go until I say so,” he orders, and Irie is still processing the shiver from those words when Byakuran closes his hand on the other’s hip and thrusts the rest of the way into him all at once. Irie chokes on his breath, his hand clenches involuntarily tight around himself, and Byakuran isn’t giving him time to regain his composure. He’s falling into a rhythm immediately, fast enough that Irie can’t think and hard enough that he has to cling to Byakuran’s shoulder to keep himself in place. He can feel Byakuran’s breathing coming faster against his skin, can see the flutter of silver eyelashes when the other sighs an exhale of satisfaction, but it’s nothing compared to the sensation tearing through him, the heat and friction and pressure all stumbling through his veins until Irie’s sure he’s rising bruises on the pale skin under his desperate grip on Byakuran’s shoulder. Everything is cresting higher, waves of sensation thudding through him in time with his heartbeat and stalling against the pressure of his fingers around his cock, and every breath Irie takes is a whimper, every exhale comes out as a moan.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, his voice coming from some infinite distance before Irie can piece together the sound. “You can let go.”

Irie acts before he understands the words. His fingers slide loose, the sharp weight of the pressure eases, and he takes a deep shuddering breath of expectation. It takes a moment; he can feel the wave building just under his skin, the tension of pleasure climbing higher than he’s ever felt before, and Byakuran is still moving, still jolting more heat into Irie’s blood with every thrust. Then it starts to break, the leading edge overwhelming all on its own so Irie starts to gasp “ _Byakuran_ ” in the moments before his voice cracks and his throat closes and everything stops mattering. There’s laughter, far in the distance, breathless amusement pouring over Irie’s skin, but he can’t see and he doesn’t care, there’s just wave after wave of heat and pleasure until he’s drowning, he’s drowned, his vision is gone and he’s not breathing and none of it matters at all but the pressure of Byakuran against him.

It feels like it goes on forever. Byakuran doesn’t slow the rhythm of his thrusts, is breathing faster and harder against Irie’s mouth, and Irie can’t stop shuddering, certain every pulse of pleasure is the last until another overtakes him. He can’t catch his breath, his fingertips are starting to go numb, and then Byakuran’s fingers at his hip tense, fingernails dig in hard against his skin.

“You feel  _so_  good, Sho-chan,” Byakuran gasps, the words breaking on his tongue, and Irie just has time to realize that he’s never heard Byakuran sound like that, in memory or in reality, before the other is going tense over him as his movement stutters to a stop. There’s a breath, low and shaking, and all the thrumming tension dissolves into one long drawn-out sigh as Byakuran shivers himself into pleasure over Irie. His skin is radiant, bleeding heat like he’s a dying star, and then he melts in against Irie’s body, the sharp edges of his body fitting in against the redhead’s as if this is their intended location. Irie’s lips catch on silver hair, Byakuran’s breath tickles against the side of his neck, and then there’s an arm winding around his neck, tugging him in closer so Byakuran’s lips can touch his skin.

“I’m staying the night, Sho-chan,” he says, statement instead of question.

Irie sighs, half in resignation and half in contentment. “I thought you said you had plans tomorrow?”

Byakuran laughs, faint against his throat, opens his mouth to scrape his teeth against Irie’s skin. “Mm.” He sounds amused, like he’s holding a secret under his tongue. “I lied.”

Irie ought to be frustrated, irritated or angry or bitter that nothing has changed, really, that Byakuran is still just the same as he always was. He’s not. His eyes burn with sudden tears of appreciation, his throat closes around the ache of happiness, and when his next breath turns into a sob it’s relief and not misery that pulls at the sound. Byakuran hums at his skin, nuzzles in closer in complete disregard for the damp starting to spill across Irie’s cheeks, and Irie slides an arm around the other’s waist and turns his head to press his face against the soft white of the other’s hair.

It’s been a long, long time since he cried out of happiness instead of hurt.


End file.
